Title: Amau
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Keywords: story, historical au, msr, angst, light 'other'
Summary: London, spring, 1218
Distribution: link to: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/hiraeth.html
Website: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/index.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver spoons: Jen – you're good (no cd & ends msr), Spooning – 
yep, Skinner-head-check – long gone, Snortameter – 5.5, 
Angst-o-meter – 7.4 
Author's note: The real Pembroke Castle is south Wales, but in 
The Hiraeth universe, it's been relocated to somewhere outside 
London.  (Walter) William Marshall, Count of Pembroke, was a 
real person – the greatest knight of his time - and did have 
a son named Walter.

*~*~*~*
 
Holding his breath, he lifted the blanket, appraised the 
expanse of pale flesh, and had a single thought: 'Please
let there be no mistake.'

Gwilym kept staring at her in wonder, trying to acquaint himself
with the idea that this woman belonged in bed with him and he 
with her.  As dawn began timidly skirting the city, he checked 
again, and found last night had not been a dream after all.   

In response to the cool air, Duana shifted, draping her bare
leg across his. "Do you need anything?" she mumbled, trying to 
sleep for a few minutes.

"Not a thing," he answered honestly.

She stretched, her breast passing against the crisp hair of his chest 
with a sigh, and opened her eyes to check on him.  "Really?  Are 
you sure?"

"Really – I am fine.  You do not need to jump every time I breathe. 
Are you always like this?" 

"No," she replied, closing her heavy eyelids.  "Do not get used to 
it."

"Duana…" he began, not sure what he wanted to ask or say.  Aside 
from recognizing her, his life was only flashes of images and 
sensations, and there was so much he needed to know.  
Occasionally, a memory flickered like a candle had been lit in the 
darkness of his mind, letting him see for an instant, but then was 
gone, leaving more questions than it answered.     

A tentative hint of dawn slipped through the cracks in the shutters 
and found its way through the bed curtains, making her hair glisten 
gold and scarlet on her bare shoulders.  "My God, you are 
beautiful," he murmured, trailing his finger down her face.  

"Am I?" she responded softly, snuggling against him.

"More than beautiful.  If man could create a woman – take a statue 
of the purest, strongest marble, cover it with soft white skin, and 
then wrap it in the crimson of a sunrise for lips and hair – he would 
almost have you.  He would still need to turn two sapphires to fire 
so they spark blue flames at me and make my breath catch in my 
throat.  Kings would die for you and men would barter their souls, 
yet here you are beside me."

Duana squirmed, embarrassed, and hid her face against his 
shoulder.  "I think you have hit your head very hard."

"Why?"

"You do not usually say things like that to me," she mumbled.

He looked down at her, puzzled.  She obviously cared for him very 
much, and, after getting him fed, bathed, and doctored, she had come 
to bed with her hair down – an invitation to make love if he could 
have worked up the nerve.  He saw other women in his head, but 
mostly, only her – he could not conceive that he did not love her.

"What do I usually say to you?" Gwilym asked, showing a 
surprising amount of tact.

"You call me your 'cariad' – your beloved.  Beyond that, you say 
very little.  It is just not your nature.  When you remember more, 
you will understand.  I know you care for me very much."  She 
kissed him softly, melting her body into his arms, then opened her 
mouth, offering. 

Whether he said it or not, Gwilym had no doubt as to what he felt.

"Are you up to this?" Duana paused to ask a few minutes later, 
already a little breathless.

"I think so," he joked, glancing down.  Then he added more 
seriously, "Are you?  Duana, I do not remember – to me it is like 
we have never been together before."

She glanced away for a second, and then met his eyes.  "I think I 
would like that.  I think I would like that very much – you not 
remembering.  For you to treat me like a woman instead of a 
fragile friend who shares your bed."

Gwilym paused, propping himself up on his elbows.  "I do not 
understand."

She pulled him down to her, whispering as her hands traveled over 
his body, exploring, caressing.  "Sometimes, when you have had a 
little too much wine or when you are upset, you forget for an 
instant and treat me as your lover instead of as your wife.  After 
those nights, I can still feel you inside me the next day – you are 
still with me.  And when you are away for weeks, I ache in that 
very same place.  I do not think you understand that, William."

Oh, dear God in Heaven.  He simply said the last rational thing he 
was capable of: "You are so slight – perhaps I am afraid of hurting 
you."  

"You told me before you left for this war that we fit together very 
well.  That you liked that."

He shuddered as she rubbed against him, but still he hesitated.  
Gwilym did remember a jumble: her struggling, frightened, trying 
to pull away as he held her in the darkness, feeling a baby moving 
inside her, spots of blood on a white sheet, hearing her gasp one 
morning in a stable, surprised at her body's reaction to his.  It all 
blurred together, though, like smeared ink, and made an incoherent 
story.  

"Will you tell me if you do not like this?"

"Better," Duana whispered back, "I will tell you if I do."

*~*~*~*

He wanted to stay in this tranquil place: his body deep inside hers, 
her legs wrapped around his hips and waist holding him to her, 
mouth on mouth, hands on hands.  Nature, however, had other 
ideas.

Rising a bit so she could breathe, Gwilym studied Duana's flushed 
face, then kissed her leisurely.  "I think you liked that," he 
whispered into her ear.  "I think you liked that very much."  

"You are very observant," she murmured back, still floating in her 
euphoric haze.

"I still have you," he reminded her, squeezing her hands under his, 
fingers tightly interlaced.  "Perhaps I am not sure; perhaps I should 
do it again so I can watch you more closely."  

He gave his hips a gentle thrust and she gasped, her body 
convulsing.

"Or perhaps I will just watch your face each time you sit down 
today." Gwilym rolled to his side, keeping her against his chest.  
"Are you really all right?" he checked one last time. "I just did 
what you asked."

Duana nodded affirmatively, then aligned her body with his, 
closing her eyes.

"Cariad," he said, trying out this new name, "I remember 
something: it is May Day; at dusk, our year will have passed. If we 
renew the vows tonight, the pagan marriage continues; if not, it is 
as though it had never been.  We have a son from the Beltane 
fires, yes?"   

"We have a son from last year: Mab – David," she mumbled, 
wanting to sleep.  "And Eimile is a toddler.  You had two other 
children with a woman named Diana, but they are with God.  It is 
very complicated though, and Prince Llewelyn has just made it 
more so."

"It seems my life is very complicated," he replied, trying to digest 
all that.  "Four children – really?"

"The King and Queen of Spain have seventeen, Melvin has twelve, 
and Llewelyn has seven, one even with his wife.  Do not sound so 
surprised.  And, I think, perhaps you are going to have a fifth."

Gwilym had been hovering in a pleasant fog somewhere between 
his body and sleep, but he jolted back to reality.

"I am not certain yet," she continued calmly, "But I think so, and 
Fitz already knows; he may tell you if I do not.  I just do not want 
you to be disappointed again if I am wrong."

He stroked her sweaty, tangled hair, counting the months. 
If they had a son from the bonfires last year, the child 
had been born mid-winter and it was barely spring.  That was much
too soon for her to be pregnant again.

"Did I want this, cariad?"

"Of course; very much."  

Gwilym swallowed, wondering what had possessed him.  "Did you 
want this?" he finally asked.

There was the slightest hesitation before she answered 'yes,' which 
told more than any assurances she could offer.  

*~*~*~* 

"He looks better," Fitz observed quietly, as Duana checked a 
dozing William again.  "The ladies of the Court will rejoice – he 
causes more than a few hearts to flutter. As Llewelyn says, he is 
very pretty.  Are his memories returning?"

She nodded, tucking the blanket around him as a hand snaked out, 
making a lewd gesture at Fitz and then searching for her.  "I am 
here – rest; Fitz is just jealous," Duana assured her husband.  The 
hand squeezed hers, and then disappeared under the pillow as 
William relaxed.

"Have you slept at all?" Fitz asked, following Duana out of the 
bedchamber and shutting the door softly behind him.  "Or have 
you been taking care of him all night?"

"His head wound is not as deep as I first thought, although he will 
not like his new haircut when he gets a look at it," she replied, 
seeming not to hear Fitz's questions as she busied herself tidying up 
the sitting room.  "I think as the swelling goes down, more of his 
memories will return."

She picked up some scrap of green fabric off the floor and Fitz saw 
her eyes lose focus as she straightened back up.

"Easy," Fitz said, quickly grabbing her and backing her to a chair.  
Even as flustered as he was, he did not miss that she flinched as he 
touched her and as her backside made contact with the wooden 
seat.  He had come to her apartments early this morning to check
on William – and Duana, and overheard more than he had wanted 
to before he could make a hasty exit.  Fitz took a deep breath, 
trying to push those sounds and images out of his mind for the 
moment.  

Never having been around a pregnant woman before, he hovered 
nervously, offering everything but his soul to make her feel
better until she shushed him.

"We can speak another time if you need to rest, Duana.  It 
will wait.  You cannot ride to Wales like this.  I do not 
want you endangering the baby.  Or yourself." 

"No, I am fine.  This happens."

"I see how you are fine.  Do you want me to send for a doctor?"

"Really, Fitz – I am-" His forehead wrinkled with worry and 
Duana acquiesced, "Maybe a little fresh air.  Just for a few 
minutes." 
 
"Of course.  It is a beautiful day."  

He helped her up, gesturing for several servants to follow them to 
the outer courtyard.  Choosing a bench near the castle gates, Fitz 
sat beside her, making sure to leave a decent space between them.  
Maids swarmed like bees, bringing blankets, sips of water, and 
fanning her until Duana ordered them to away.

"For Heaven's sake, I just became a little dizzy.  I am not that 
delicate." 

He worried his lips for a moment, then opened his mouth, sighed, 
and closed it again.  

"What is it, Fitz?" Duana asked, keeping an eye on the outside of 
the shuttered window of her bedchamber as she rested.  
"Something is on your mind."

"I am not sure how to say this, Duana.  I had thought I would say 
nothing, but now it seems I have to.  But I am not sure this is the 
right time – with the baby."

"Speak: it has been a long few weeks.  And I am used to William – 
I doubt you can shock me."

Fitz shifted uncomfortably, then signaled a servant to bring her a 
package.  "When we could not find William's body after the battle, 
I had my seneschal Geoffrey intercept any packages or messages 
that came for you.  I did not want some Frenchman with a sense of 
humor sending you William's head – or worse, especially when 
you said you were going to have another child.  This came for you 
from the Earl of Chester."

Duana untied the letter, skimming it quickly.

"Is that William's seal and signature?" Fitz asked.

"It is.  Why do you think this is so important? It just instructs me to 
pay for some servant girl named 'Lucy' and see that she is sent to 
Wales.  I handle his accounts just as I handled your father's; 
there is nothing unusual about this – just another of William's odd 
expenses."

"That is quite a sum to pay for a mere girl."

She shrugged, puzzled.  William had bought dragon eggs, unicorn 
horns, and three different maps to Camelot – she did not even 
question it anymore.

"Duana, I think he is paying her bride price as well.  William and 
Llewelyn spent the night in Lincoln Castle after Llewelyn was 
wounded, and William must have spent the night with this girl.  
Afterward, he wanted very badly to keep her.  I do not expect him 
to be faithful to you any more than any other man, but I just cannot 
stomach that he would send you the bill."

"He would not do that," she said coolly.  "I think you are mistaken.  
In fact, I-"  

"Chester sent the bed sheet, Duana, in case William might not 
recall why he agreed to such an steep price.  There is no mistake."  
Fitz watched her face as she reached further into the parcel, 
touching the large spots of dried blood on the white fabric, and then 
looked away. "I have already provided a dowry for her and seen 
that she will be well-cared for in Chester.  If there is a child, it 
will be fostered there as well; you will never see it."

"Why did you do this, Fitz?" she said after a long pause. "Whether 
this is true or not, why hurt me?  I thought you were my friend.  
We are friends, Fitz, nothing more – please remember that."

"You do not need to worry; I will not forget again.  And I do not 
want to hurt you," he said shakily.  "I only want to see that you are 
not hurt.  If he will be rough with a serf, a thirteen-year-old girl, 
he will be rough with you and I will not tolerate that."

"He is not like that," Duana insisted.  "And it is not your concern 
anyway."

"Explain to me again how he cares for you so much?  I heard you 
this morning – there is no excuse for that, Duana.  And you pull 
away when anyone suddenly touches you now; you did not do that 
with my father.  Perhaps he cares so much that you are carrying 
your third children in barely two years?  And it is nice that this 
Muritta – his mistress – has free run of your bedchamber in Wales.  
The word among the Welsh knights is that he wanted you to keep 
Muritta's child, but you refused.  Then there is what Edward spoke 
of – taking you go among the Druids, practicing some sort of 
fertility witchcraft.  I cannot allow that!"

"You may not say things like that to me.  It is not prop-" Duana 
leaned down, covering her face with her hands.

"Please do not cry.  I like William, I really do, but he is not one of 
us – the Welsh are different with their odd laws and ways.  They 
are warriors: hotheaded, uncivilized pagans.  I would give him my 
army to lead, or my son to train as a soldier, but not my stepmother 
to wife.  But the Crown did give you to him and so it is the 
Crown's place to object to your treatment.  I know you and I know 
you will put on a brave face and pretend everything is perfect when 
you are miserable."

"You do not understand, Fitz," she said, her voice trembling. "I am 
sure there is an explanation; he just does not remember it.  And 
even if there is not, he is still my husband.  I have no say in 
whatever he wants to do.  You love this, do you not – planting 
doubts about a man you know I care for?"

"I would never have told you if he had died.  No, I take no pleasure 
in this, but I will not send you back to those God-forsaken Welsh 
mountains alone as though I trust your husband to put you above 
all others."  

'As I would,' Fitz did not add.

Duana looked up, her face and eyes red.  "Do not harm him."

"Of course not."

"If you are saying you want me in exchange for not charging 
William as a heretic, I will agree.  I will hate you, but I will agree." 
She took a few breaths, trying to keep her voice from shaking, 
"Your father died because of me and I will not have that happen 
again."    

"Do not even say such things!  Duana, all I want is what I said – to 
know you will not be hurt again.  I am not going to harm William; 
you have my word."

She stood, smoothing out her skirt so she had something to do with 
her hands.  "I am going for a walk.  I will be back shortly – but 
please tell William where I am if he awakens.  I do not want him to 
worry.  And please have them open the castle gates."

Fitz signaled the guards, then watched, hands on his hips, as Duana 
squared her shoulders and walked away.

"My lord?" Geoffrey asked quietly, appearing beside Fitz.  "My 
lord, the horses are ready.  Do we take her?"

"Is it right to keep a woman from a husband she loves, even if he 
mistreats her?" Fitz murmured, talking more to himself that 
Geoffrey.  "I am not so sure now."

"Your orders, my lord?"

"Go ahead," he finally said.  "Be careful that she is not harmed; 
she is with child.  Tell them not to try to ride any further than my 
county estate tonight and to station extra guards at the gate in case 
Lord William tries to go after her.  And God forgive me if I have 
done the wrong thing."

*~*~*~*   
 
"There has been some mistake," Llewelyn insisted, as Gwilym 
stared dumbfounded at the sheet and then read the letter a seventh 
time. "He would not do this."

"It seems he did," Fitz answered, resting his hands lightly on the 
edge of his desk.  "William?"

"I-I do not remember," Gwilym said shakily. "Has Duana seen 
this?" 

"Yes.  She asked me for safe passage and I have given it.  She is 
hours away by now.  All I want is for you to explain this – all of 
this: why you would be so rough with a young girl, why your 
mistress is her maid, who fathered her daughter.  I am concerned 
for her; that is all.  Duana is very dear to me."

Gwilym stood, letting the sheet fall to the floor, and started to 
pace, feeling the room was much too small for something so awful.  
Those were the images he saw in his head: the other women, 
Duana struggling, crying, pulling away.  Blood.

"You have interfered in something that is not your place, 
fitzWalter!" Llewelyn spat.

"You forget to whom you are speaking," Fitz replied icily.

"I will tell you to whom I speak," Llewelyn hissed, bracing his 
hands on the desk and looming over Fitz.  "A bright young man 
with too much power and a childish crush on his pretty stepmother 
as he tries to live in his father's shadow.  You have known William 
for a few months; I have known him since we were boys and I 
have never known him be rough with any woman.  He has risked 
everything for Duana, and, according to one of my sharp-eared 
knights, she offered everything she had to ensure you continued to 
search for him after the battle.  And now you are telling me she 
would leave him over some peasant girl he does not even 
remember?  When your marriage is more than an empty bed and a 
piece of paper giving you control over a boy-king, you come tell 
me of love.  Write your poems and brag of your English chivalry, 
but when you will be laughed at for taking back your faithless wife 
as I have, or when you will give your children away to ensure they 
will not be murdered out of spite, then you come tell me of 
marriage.  Boy."

FitzWalter flushed and Llewelyn stepped back, realizing he had 
said too much.

"There is rebellion in Scotland," Fitz said after a moment, the 
tendons of his throat standing out angrily. "I am sending William 
and his knights to put it down.  I understand his forty days of 
service for the year have passed, so I will pay him for this."

Llewelyn gritted his teeth.  "And then the rebellion in Ireland, and 
then in South Wales and then perhaps the latest Crusade, providing 
you do not send him to re-conquer France.  You will just keep 
sending him into battle until one day, he does not return.  You 
cannot do this – I will go to the Royal Counsel."

"It was my father that headed the Counsel, Llewelyn.  Let us take 
this sheet and that convoluted story about who fathered whose 
child you made up – and perhaps this Muritta's child – and go ask 
them.  I can understand how they would want my father's widow 
mistreated."

"Then I will go to the Templars."

"Yes – there is a doctor who tells of a very Christian Druid 
ceremony that William took his wife to.  And, even in London, 
they are saying how the heir to Wales was born during an eclipse 
of the full moon, that the sky was blood red even as it snowed 
because the babe, like Merlin, is of the Old Ones.  The Knights 
Templar are very tolerant of the old religions.  Ask the 
Infidels."

"You cannot do this!"

"It is done," Fitz replied defensively, thinking this had spiraled far 
beyond anything he ever intended.  "I do not want you dead, 
William.  You will stay with my army as a strategist, not as a 
general.  Duana will be well kept, and her daughter can join her as 
soon as the girl is old enough to travel.  The boy stays in Wales as 
your heir, Llewelyn – I think I owe you that: to act as if I believed 
your lie unless William says otherwise.  I will not keep you from 
your children, William, but you may not see Duana.  I will not take 
the chance that you will hurt her." Fitz looked at Llewelyn's 
flushed face, then at Gruffydd standing in the shadows staring into 
space, then watched Gwilym pacing. "Will you tell me who 
fathered her daughter, William?  Was it my father?  Or was it 
another man?"

"No," Gwilym replied.

"No, you will not tell me, or no, it was not my father?"

"No – I will not lead your army and no, I will not believe Duana 
does not want to see me or that she left Court of her own free will.  
She would want to yell at me if nothing else, and I intend to see 
she gets to do that."

Fitz folded his arms across his broad chest.  "You and your knights 
will ride for Scotland within the week or I will charge you with a 
felony and seize your lands.  Under the law, that is my right."

Gwilym leaned over the desk so he was eye-to-eye with Fitz.  
"Charge me," he said slowly.  "Llewelyn has my children, the 
Crown has my lands, and you have my wife.  One of those things 
is going to change."

Fitz flinched back a hair's breadth.  "You would renounce your 
oath to the king over a woman?  It is true then: a Welshman's 
word is worthless."  

He waited for a response, but there were only Gwilym's dark eyes 
burning into him.  Then, as he had done in the tavern that night, 
Gwilym simply turned and walked away without a word.

*~*~*~*

Geoffrey spotted the idiot Welsh boy playing near the gates at 
dusk, once again picking the new leaves off the decorative plants 
and tearing them into bits.  Christ, why did they not lock Griffith – 
Gruffydd up somewhere and keep him out of trouble?  Ever since 
fitzWalter had decided he would have free run of Court, the boy 
had been nothing but trouble.

"Do not do that!"  The gardener would have a fit when he saw 
what the young man had done to the roses. "I have told you before.  
Do you not speak French, boy?  I said stop it!"

Gruffydd ignored the seneschal, moving further along the outer 
castle wall and continuing his unique method of pruning.      

"Boy, those are the king's roses," Geoffrey said, following him.  
"And I do not like being ignored!"

The young man looked at him, shrugged, and stepped deeper into 
the shadows, still stripping the leaves off the domesticated 
rosebushes.

"You impudent brat!  How dare-"

As soon as Geoffrey was within a foot of Gruffydd, a man's arm 
snaked out lightning-fast, pulling him into the shadows and 
holding a dagger to his throat.  "Do not cry out," a voice he 
recognized as the Prince of Wales ordered.  "Keep quiet and you 
will live a little longer."

"Where is Lady Duana?" another man asked in faulty French, 
pressing a second knife against his ribs.  "Where fitzWalter send?"

Geoffrey started to call for help and both blades pressed slightly 
harder.  Behind William of Aber, Gruffydd looked up from the 
rosebushes, proud of his role in this ambush.

"Rosslyn," he answered, picking something that sounded very far 
away.  "Rosslyn Castle in Scotland."  

The taller man stepped back, and leather squeaked as William 
swung into a saddle.  "Say 'open gate,'" William commanded as the 
horse snorted.

Geoffrey hesitated, and the knife at his throat twitched, causing a 
Small, wet trail of blood to flow.  "Open the gates!" Geoffrey called 
out, careful not to move.  "I am riding out – open the gates!"

A few words were exchanged in Welsh, then the man on the horse 
pulled his hood over his head and rode out at a full gallop – too 
quickly for the guard to realize it was not Geoffrey leaving the 
castle.

"I did what you asked," Geoffrey said, as the hoof beats faded and 
the blade at his throat still had not moved.

"You knew my son was locked in that cage in the dungeon," 
Llewelyn responded quietly.  "And you conveniently forgot to tell 
anyone that for months. I am not quite finished with you yet."

As Geoffrey began to tremble, Gruffydd sprinkled a handful of 
shredded rose leaves in front of Geoffrey's face, smiling.

*~*~*~*

"No!  Absolutely not!" a pretty blonde ordered, shaking her head 
and gesturing for the knights to ride out of the bailey.  "I will not 
have her here."

Richard, who had been reinstated as captain of fitzWalter's knights 
for the day, sighed, but kept a firm arm around Duana in the saddle 
in front of him.  Richard fitzMatthew had finally resorted to having
her ride with him: she kept trying to get off her horse and it seemed 
disrespectful to tie her onto the saddle.  Besides, getting to hold 
her so close was not entirely unpleasant, even for an old man like him.  

"She needs to rest: she is with child, Isabelle," Richard replied, 
and then remembered to add, "Countess."  He still thought of 
Fitz's wife as the girl-queen rather than the queen mother and the new 
Countess of Pembroke.   

"She is?  Well, Fitz found something to do during the siege after 
all.  No, Richard.  I will not have her under my roof."

The knights, embarrassed, looked at everything else except Isabelle 
and each other.  It was an open secret that Isabelle despised Fitz's 
rigid sternness as much as he hated her petty flightiness, but the 
marriage was still politically necessary.  Fitz found comfort 
elsewhere, just as Isabelle did, but most people were polite enough 
not to mention it.

The captain debated, then decided this was just another of 
Isabelle's tantrums and was best ignored.  Richard slid down from 
his horse, then offered his hands to help Duana.

"Careful," another knight reminded him, holding up his bruised 
forearm. "She bites."

Isabelle's eyes flashed and she tossed her long hair angrily.  She 
had never accepted the idea that only virgins and queens wore their 
hair loose and uncovered and she was a long way from either.  
"Did you not hear me?  I said-"

"FitzWalter said she was to stay here tonight," the captain said 
tiredly, making sure Duana had her balance before he let her go.  
"She needs to rest."  Richard added in a softer voice to Duana, 
"Just a few minutes more and you can lie down.  Will you make it 
inside?  I can carry you?"  She had not come as easily as the 
knights had anticipated, and he was terrified they had injured her 
trying to wrestle her onto a horse.  For a woman said to be fleeing 
her barbarian husband, it was like manhandling a lioness to get her 
to leave London.

Duana shook her head 'no' staring at the ground. "I am fine."

"Yes, you are – fine, that is."  Isabelle held her torch up to examine 
Duana, who ignored the other woman.  "How is it men continue to 
turn me out of their beds to chase you? Me!  Turn me out!  First 
my John, and now Fitz, although fitzWalter could not turn me out 
because I was never there.  He is too besotted with you to even 
notice me.  They say Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, covets you as well.
It seems the greatest men of our world believe themselves in love
with you, when really, you are only exotic: nothing more."  
Isabelle leaned close, hissing at Duana. "I think it must be 
witchcraft – that you could please a man so well he would sell 
his soul to you."

Several of the younger knights shifted uncomfortably. Isabelle was 
still quite pretty and persuasive with her blonde curls and big blue 
eyes – more than one of the king's men had risked his head to 
spend a night with her, only to have her extract her pound of flesh 
afterward.  Having Isabelle was like being loaned gold in female 
form, but she demanded interest for her favors one bloody shilling 
at a time.    

Isabelle waited for a response, for Duana to defend herself, and 
then flushed furiously as she continued to be ignored.

"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?  You try to take two 
husbands from me and you do not even have the courtesy to 
pretend you are ashamed?"

She raised her hand to slap Duana, and the captain grabbed it 
quickly.  "Enough!  We are going inside.  She stays here tonight 
and we will leave in the morning: those were fitzWalter's orders. If 
you disagree, discuss it with your husband."
  
Isabelle jerked free, so livid at this insult to her pride she was 
trembling.  

"Sir Colton – Thomas?" she said evenly as the men escorted 
Duana inside, leaving Isabelle still standing in the bailey.  One of 
the knights topped, shoulders hunched, staying behind.  "You will 
tell my husband we are going to have a child," she instructed.

Colton did not turn around to look at her, but his head fell forward 
as though waiting for the executioner's axe.  Fitz had not seen 
Isabelle in months – not since the wedding, and he had not even 
bothered to pretend to spend the night with her then.  But Colton 
had… seen her.  Once; two months ago.   

"Tell Fitz he is going to have a child, Colton.  Tell him I am not so 
easily annulled now."

"Yes, my lady," Colton replied, walking quickly into the castle 
without looking back. 

*~*~*~*

Gwilym heard snores, recognized them as his, and realized he must 
have fallen asleep against the horse's flank again as he tried to 
groom this latest mount.  The stable was quiet, the horse was warm 
and smelled better than the last place he had slept, and the snoring 
had a nice melody, so he decided to rest his eyes for a few more 
seconds.  

He had covered the hundreds of miles between London and 
Edinburgh riding flat out and trading or buying horses as needed, 
trying to ensure he was ahead of the guards moving Duana toward 
Rosslyn Castle.  It was too chancy to challenge so many knights in 
the open, but as long as he knew their destination, all he had to do 
was beat them there and then wait.

At least, that was what he hoped.  One man against a party of 
knights was not good odds, but he had very little left to lose.

A hand touched his shoulder lightly, waking him and startling the 
horse. "Asleep," a woman said in poor French, dodging back 
quickly as though she expected him to swing at her.  

"Sorry," Gwilym apologized, blinking and discovering he was still 
holding the brush.  Out of habit, he started to move his hand again 
while watching the slim brunette out of the corner of his eye.  He 
had left London with a good deal of money in his saddlebags and 
he did not want her stealing what remained.

"Will you come inside for the night?  I have a room."

"And I have a wife," he replied politely, not interested in a 
prostitute, although her Gaelic accent reminded him of Duana.  
Whores did not get paid to talk, though, and he did not need any 
more guilt. "Thank you for the offer, but I will sleep here.  Alone," 
he added for clarity.

"And I have a husband," she said easily. "Iohn is on crusade, so I 
run the tavern while he is away.  Please come inside.  You look as 
though you have not rested in weeks."

"I am sorry; I did not mean to insult you.  I am not passing the 
night, just resting the horse.  Or I will buy another if you have any 
to sell."

"I do not, but you cannot push this horse any further or he will 
drop.  It would be a pity to ruin such an animal."

Gwilym, who could not have told anyone the color of his current 
mount without looking if his life had depended on it, just shrugged.  
"It does not matter.  Rosslyn Castle is only a few more miles, yes?"

"Yes.  About six miles; follow the River North Esk."

He finally turned to look at her, noting she reminded him of 
someone else as well.  Dark hair and eyes: probably Diana – he 
had finally assigned that name to one of the women he 
remembered.  He did not recall Diana looking so haunted as this 
Highlander woman, though, but what he recalled was highly 
questionable these days.

"You are far from home - you are looking for someone, Welshman," 
she said, fingering the crude cross of Duana's he had tied 
around his throat.  "Someone you have lost.  I pray you find her."

"So do I," he answered, stepping back out of her reach and looking 
away.  "Will you leave and let me pray?"

Crystin nodded, leaving the stable and sliding the door closed after 
her so it blocked out the crimson sunset and the darkness returned.

*~*~*~*  

Fitz could not even get his foot out of his stirrup before Isabelle 
pounced on him about Duana, digging at his conscience and then 
twisting her claws.

"She is not my mistress," Fitz assured her for a tenth time in a row, 
still using the polite, aloof tone he had cultivated for French 
ambassadors. "And I will have Duana moved as soon as it is safe 
for her child.  She left London very quickly…"

Isabelle was glaring at him, and he decided it was not worth 
wasting his breath.  The only person Isabelle had any sympathy for 
was Isabelle.  

"How dare you insult me? How dare you continue to keep that 
woman under my roof?"

Fitz cocked his head to the side, gritting his teeth.  Not a word 
from Isabelle asking about him or her son Henry after not seeing 
either in months.  His seneschal had vanished to God-knows-
where, the Royal Counsel was having marathon meetings about 
nothing in particular, and Fitz had a head cold – the last thing he 
wanted to do was smooth Isabelle's ruffled fur. "My roof," he 
said evenly, pointing to the castle battlements. "Pembroke Castle.
Under -my- roof."

Static crackled in the air between them as Isabelle calculated, her 
narrowed eyes and flared nostrils looking out of place on her pretty 
face.  "Do not dismiss me so easily," she warned.

"I do not dismiss you; I am only saying there is no insult to you.  
Duana needed sanctuary and I gave it.  That is all.  This was once 
her home."

If she even heard that, she gave no sign of it.  "We are going to 
have a child," she informed him.

He took a few breaths before asking, "We?"  

There was no 'we'; there had never been a 'we.' Marrying 
Isabelle had soothed the Royal Counsel and cemented his place as 
kingmaker, but Fitz was now firmly established as regent and she 
was nothing but an embarrassment.  If the need ever arose: say, in 
the form of a pretty redhead, Isabelle was easily annulled.  But 
once there was a child, annulment was not possible.  The marriage 
had been consummated.  There was still the option of charging her 
with adultery and treason against him and having her executed, but 
Fitz could never bring himself to do that.  

"We?" he repeated.  "Would you like to tell me which man 
constituted my part of this 'we' while I was in London?"

Isabelle smiled, revealing her even white teeth – God had 
overlooked nothing in making this woman perfect except a heart.  
"No, I would rather you wondered."

*~*~*~*

Duana was sitting by an open window staring out toward London 
as Fitz hovered in the doorway.  "Are you supposed to be out of 
bed so soon?" he mumbled, feeling like a chastised child.  "Are 
you still fainting?  Have the pains stopped?" 

She ignored him, continuing to watch the horizon.

"He is not coming, Duana.  The Welshmen left Court weeks ago; 
William is in Aber by now.  If you are able to ride, do you want to 
come back to London?  Or I can have Isabelle moved and you can 
stay here.  Whatever you want."

"What did you tell him, Fitz?" Duana finally said, still not looking 
away.  "What did you say to him to get him to leave me?"

"I did not – Llewelyn's knights overheard us talking abo-about," 
he stuttered, "continuing the search for William after the battle."  
He swallowed nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the 
other.  "William was gone by morning.  He did not even challenge 
me, Duana.  I would have told him it was not true if he had asked."

"Then he did not believe it."

"Because he did not challenge me?"

She finally turned her head, but kept her hands on the stone 
windowsill.  "No, because you are still breathing.  William would 
not bother with Norman chivalry and jousting; he would have just 
slit your throat."

"You overestimate your husband."

"Not very often," Duana answered, returning her gaze toward the 
city. "Do you have any idea how much I hate you?"

"Yes, I have some idea."  Fitz sat heavily in a chair beside the 
door, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  "I do 
not know how to fix this, Duana.  I had no idea that once you were 
safely away, you would still want to go back to him."

"You must never sleep, fitzWalter, with all the time you spend 
monitoring marriages in addition to running Britain.  I thought a 
day had only twenty-four hours, but you must somehow find 
more."  She stood, locked her elbows, leaning slightly out the window 
so the sun warmed her hair through her veil.  "So he has a mistress; it 
is his right.  So there are other women as well, women who can 
offer him things that I cannot.  You have still caused me more hurt 
in ten minutes than ever William has."    

"He hurt you," Fitz insisted.  "I heard-"

Duana whirled, her long skirt swirling around her legs. "Oh for 
Christ's sake!  No, he did not!  What is wrong with you men?  
How can you think putting 'Lady' or 'Countess' in front of one's 
name somehow snuffs out passion?  You lust after it in your 
mistresses, but blush at it in your wives.  Would you like to know a 
secret, fitzWalter?  We are all women.  The only difference 
between a lady and a courtesan is what her father, her Church, and 
her lover have taught her."

Fitz leaned so far back in his chair that his head pressed against the 
whitewashed stone wall, his mouth hanging open. 

"You want to know how to fix this?" she continued angrily.  "You 
send a messenger to Wales with an oath swearing I did not leave 
him or dishonor him.  A woman can end a Welsh marriage, Fitz, 
and William would let me leave if I had asked; I do not need your 
knights kidnapping me.  William thinks I want a divorce and he is 
agreeing by not coming after me.  You send a message – no – you 
ride to Wales yourself and tell him that is not true and then you 
grant him safe passage if he will come for me.  And you do it 
immediately!"

He gaped like a dying fish.  There was no way he could put aside 
his duties for the two weeks it would take to ride to Wales and 
back.  "But I have to – Henry – the Counsel- London…"

Duana tilted her chin up slightly, daring him to defy her.
	
"Wales?" he pleaded.

"North Wales."   

"Wales," Fitz conceded, getting up from his chair.  At least that 
was two weeks away from Isabelle.  

*~*~*~*

"It is a game; I told her it was," Gwilym whispered, pausing to 
rest his cheek against the horse's forehead and swallowing a sob. 
"Life just takes my pieces one by one until the board is clear." 

The animal rolled his brown eyes and nudged him gently, trying 
to understand what was wrong.  Lacking anything better to 
do, Gwilym would have answered, but how did one explain love to 
a gelding?     

"That is not the way to wrap a kilt," a woman's voice with a Gaelic 
accent called from the stable doorway, and Gwilym looked up 
quickly, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

No, it was just that wanton innkeeper.  He went back to unsaddling 
his mount, angry with her for interrupting his solitude.    

"My husband is a Highlander.  Would you like me to fix it?" 
Crystin asked, stepping closer, making the horse shy away from 
her.

"No," he said firmly, jerking furiously at the girth, then deciding to 
leave the horse saddled: he would not pass the night here after all.  
He did not care to be another woman's substitute husband.

"You should at least wear nothing underneath," she observed as he 
bent over to get his saddlebags, revealing a glimpse of loose, linen 
underclothes reaching to his mid-thigh. "That is the Highland 
way."

Gwilym, who felt like his heart was being stretched on a hoop so 
life could embroider it with rusty needles, stood up, his face 
flushed scarlet. "I paid your groom to stable my horse for the night.  
I do not need you to check my clothes or see that I eat or fluff my 
pillow. What is it you want?" 

"You are hurt," she answered, reaching up to touch the fresh cut on 
his cheek as the horse snorted nervously. "You are hurting."

He pulled away as though her hand were hot.  Jesus, this woman 
did not know when to quit.  "It is one of many."    

He could cover fifty or sixty miles a day with a fresh horse, but 
moving a woman, especially if she were with child and had to rest 
often, from London to Edinburgh, could easily take a month.  So 
he had found a nice spot in the treetops across the ravine from 
Rosslyn Castle and waited, knowing any travelers would have to 
cross the narrow bridge to enter the gates.  He could not miss her, 
and then it would just be a matter of slipping into the castle and 
asking if she wanted to leave with him – or if she wanted a 
divorce.  Gwilym suspected he knew what her answer would be, 
but he still wanted to hear her say it and see that she was safe.

Gwilym had watched the castle as May became June and 
threatened July, and thought he had finally seen knights ride in 
with a woman.  He had traded clothes with some traveler and 
slipped inside, hoping he could pass for a Scottish commoner.  He 
did not pass for long, of course, but long enough to search the 
castle for Duana before the guards had roughed him up and thrown 
him out.  

And Duana had not been there.  The woman he had seen had been 
the lord's daughter, not Duana, and he had not been able to tell 
from so far away.  

"You did not find her, Welshman.  The woman you have lost: you 
did not find her."

"No, I did not find her," he answered, faltering a bit.  Gwilym 
could function as long as he did not think about it: that he had no 
home to return to, that he had wasted months and Duana could be 
anywhere by now, and that she probably did not want him even if 
he did find her.  

He could remember now – he could remember many things, but 
not what had possessed him to hurt the serf girl in Chester Castle.
Those weeks of his life were still a dark swirl of ink in his mind –
not even hazy like some of his older memories, but just gone.     

"She is not here," Crystin said sadly. 

"I know she is not here," he snapped, pain pulling at him like a 
dangerous undercurrent.  "She is not here and making polite 
conversation with you does not help me find her.  I told you 
before: I have a wife."

"You bleed for her."

He exhaled. "Yes, I bleed for her," Gwilym replied tiredly, 
dropping his head, not even having the energy left to fight.  

He meant his soul, but felt her fingertips touching his scraped 
cheek.  He must have reopened the wound trying to wash off a few 
minutes earlier.  The Rosslyn guards, finding he did not speak their 
language, had expressed their displeasure with their fists – and he 
had let them.

"I miss having Iohn to bleed for me."

Gwilym closed his eyes, swearing he would not cry in front of a 
woman. "You said you husband is on Crusade; how long has he 
been away?"

"I was fifteen when we married.  He left that summer and there has 
been no word since.  I am two and twenty now.  How many years 
is that?"

"Seven," Gwilym calculated, knowing her husband was almost 
certainly dead and she did not realize it.  Or perhaps, like he, she 
only wanted to believe. "And you still wait?"

"I still hope," she answered, grazing the tip of her nose down the 
raw skin of his cheek, making a line to his lips.  "So does your 
woman."

"How do you know?" he managed, not moving a muscle either to 
stop or encourage her.   

"I know." She found his mouth, running her tongue over his 
chapped lips to moisten them and then pressing gently, urging his 
mouth open.  He tasted his own blood and pulled away, feeling the 
veil of darkness she wore beginning to lure him in.

"I do not want you," he insisted breathlessly, his heart pounding 
out of fear as much as anything else.

"Then why did you return?" she asked, outlining his body with her 
hands. "Edinburgh has many inns, but you returned to this one." 
Crystin pressed him against the wall of the stable, beginning to 
gather up the gray plaid fabric of his kilt with her fingers. "If you 
are so certain you want to die, I can show you what death feels 
like.  You hide it – that you feel dark things you think this red-
haired woman does not."

He stopped her hands and jerked his head back, hypnotized by the 
flecks of gold in her brown eyes.  They burned, luring him in like a 
fire on a cold night.  "What sort of witch are you?"  

"Take this off," she requested, pushing Duana's cross aside and 
licking hungrily at the base of his neck.

"No.  No," he said more forcefully, catching her wrists and forcing 
her away.  "I told you, I do not want this.  I have a wife.  Whatever 
you are seeking, I cannot give it to you."

Her eyes seemed to glow for an instant, and she reminded him of a 
wolf seeing its prey escape. "You think she expects you to be any 
better than any other husband?" 

"No, I think she deserves it."  
   
*~*~*~*

Since the midwives did not want Duana out of bed, Fitz waited in 
the hallway while the maids asked her if he could come in.  Under 
any other circumstances, he would never have entered a woman's 
bedchamber without her husband present, but his gut would twist 
inside out if he waited any longer to tell her. 

He watched from a window as dozens of wagons in the outer 
bailey were loaded with Isabelle's things, wondering idly how fate 
separated the blessed men from the fools.  FitzWalter liked 
systems and order, but life seemed to give and take love as 
unthinkingly as one flicks a bug off one's shoulder.  In this 
scenario, he was not sure if he was the shoulder or the bug.  Both, 
perhaps. 

As soon as he stepped into the room, Duana did not need to ask if 
Fitz had not been able to convince William to come.  Failure, not 
power, was that wet cloak he had spoken of, and she could see it 
weighing him down.  Duana knew fitzWalter – he had been gone 
for weeks and it was not a question of whether or not he had tried.  
There was no need to say anything else, really.    

She bit her lips and then swallowed, focusing on her fingers as she 
smoothed the blanket.  Fitz's jawbone jutted out as he clenched his 
teeth, then looked away. "I am sorry, Duana."

He had taken fifty knights – Wales was not a hospitable place for 
Normans – and desperately sent message after message to the gates 
of Aber, but there was never any response except a rain of arrows 
from the gray walls.  The castle gates remained closed, even when 
Fitz finally stood outside and yelled.  One messenger claimed 
William's piss ant of a sergeant had dumped a chamber pot on him 
from the battlements: that seemed like an answer to Fitz.  

"If you want him, I will lay siege to the castle.  William can come 
out or he can starve," he promised, overlooking that William's 
lands had technically been forfeited to the Crown. It did not really 
make a difference: owning a castle in north Wales and actually 
managing to rule it were two separate things.  "He could at least 
hear me out."

Duana shook her head.  That was just too humiliating.     

"I sent knights to Llewelyn's Court escort your daughter to 
London.  She had an earache – her nurse did not want her to travel 
yet, but Eimile will be here by harvest.  As for William - I did try, 
and I will keep trying.  Perhaps he will change his mind."

"Or perhaps not," she replied shakily. "It may seem he believes 
every story the bards sing, but William actually trusts very few 
people.  He doubts as powerfully as he believes, and now he 
doubts me.  It is a very little word: doubt.  In Welsh, 'amau' – such 
a small breath for something that can end so much."   

Fitz started to respond, but Henry scampered into the room, 
wrapped in a child's obliviousness to the adult world, and happily 
pounced on Duana's bed.   

"Sit in a chair, Henry," Fitz ordered more sternly than necessary, 
pulling a seat across the floor. "Either that, or stand.  You are not a 
child; you may not sit on the bed."   

Henry frowned at Fitz, not budging from beside Duana, who was 
looking away. "Why? Why can I not sit here?"

"Because it is not proper.  You should not even be in here.  Go 
visit your mother before she leaves."

The boy folded his arms, pushing out his lower lip. "I have seen 
Mother – now I want to see Duana. I am the king, after all."

Duana sniffed, then tilted her head to whisper in Henry's ear: 
"Your face will freeze like that: birds will perch on your lip and 
roost in your nose.  We cannot have a king with a bird in his nose."    
   
The empty wooden chair protested as Fitz rattled it, reminding 
Henry.  Sucking his lip back to its proper place, the boy crawled 
down, sitting in the chair, but leaning over to prop his elbows on 
the bed.  Fitz decided it was wiser to praise an improvement than 
dwell on an infraction and let him be.

"You are going to have a baby, yes?" Henry asked, resting his chin 
on his fists.

"I am," she managed, her voice wavering.

"My mother believed she was going to have a baby, but she was 
wrong, and now she must leave."

Fitz readjusted his hands on the back of the chair, frowning as he 
stood behind Henry. "That is not quite what happened, Henry."

"Can I feel it?" he asked, ignoring Fitz, who cleared his throat 
disapprovingly. "When my dog had puppies, I could feel them 
moving inside her."

"Not yet – a little longer until the baby moves."

"Then how do you know it is in there?" Henry asked, staring at the 
blankets covering her abdomen suspiciously.

"All right!" Fitz announced, turning Henry, still in the chair, 
toward the door.  "Enough rude questions. Either go see your 
mother or run and play.  I want to talk to Lady Duana."

Henry did not seem inclined to budge, so Fitz tilted the chair 
forward, threatening to dump him in the floor.  "Bore!" the child 
said, grinning affectionately at Fitz 

"Rascal!" Fitz shot back, managing a tight smile. "Go play: you do 
not have to see your mother again if you do not want to."

Henry seemed to like that option and skipped out happily, pausing 
to slam the door for effect.  Fitz immediately got up and reopened 
it for propriety's sake, then returned to Duana's bedside.

"He is a good boy," she said, wanting to talk of anything else 
except William. "Your father would be proud.  Henry adores you."
 
"And you," Fitz replied, taking Henry's vacant seat, but scooting 
further back from the bed.

"But I am not his mother.  Fitz, it is easy to be wrong, especially 
when a woman knows it is important for her to have a child.  Are 
you sure you want to have Isabelle annulled so quickly?"

"It is not so simple, Duana," he answered cautiously. "I never 
expected to marry a woman I loved, but Isabelle and I cannot even 
manage a civil conversation.  We only make each other miserable.  
And she was not with child, she was only bluffing, and I do not 
appreciate her bluff.  She thought that if you were with child, she 
could be as well."  
  
She started to object, so he just opened his mouth and said it: 
"Duana, when other men ask me, I lie, but the truth is no woman I 
have ever been with has conceived.  Isabelle knew that."

She had been busy trying not to think of Wales and Welshmen and 
closed castle gates, but Duana still understood.  Doctors believed it 
was the woman's fault when a couple did not conceive, but many 
supposedly barren widows suddenly found themselves pregnant by 
their second husband.  "Isabelle's child was not… Could not be… 
Oh, Fitz, I am so sorry."

Fitz shrugged; that was the least of his worries. "It is done.  She is 
going back to her father in France, and she will be much happier 
there.  Henry barely knows her; he is more attached to you…" 
Losing his nerve, he tried another approach: "Can I ask – how is 
your child?"

She rested her hand lightly on her stomach, feeling the beginning 
of a belly. "Fine.  I was having pains earlier, but they have 
stopped. The midwives are just being careful."

"I should let you rest, then."

Duana nodded, wanting to be alone.

He started to stand, and then sat back down, shifting his feet 
restlessly.  "I know you hate me," Fitz said quickly.  "That if I had 
not been too jealous to see straight, I could have just come to you 
and asked about William.  I will not condone what he has done, but 
you are a smart woman; I respect your choice to live with it.  
Many wives do.  I never expected him to simply walk away, 
especially from this child, but he will not listen."

"I think he must believe the baby is not his," Duana said quietly, 
wondering how she managed to actually form those words.  
William had never actually said Diana had been unfaithful, but he 
hinted at it – that he had not been certain his daughter was his until 
he had seen her.  How easy it would be to believe Duana would do 
the same, especially if William did not remember ever being with 
her before. 

"I have thought of that.  Duana, I will just say it." Fitz had 
rehearsed this, so he took a deep breath and spoke: "I cannot give 
William's trust back to you, but I can see that your child is well 
cared for.  I have no heir; if William does not want to acknowledge 
your child, I would like it to inherit my estates, either by right as a 
son or as a dowry for a daughter."   

"That is not le-" 

"It would be legal if you were my wife."  

"Oh," she said simply, looking away again.

"Just hear me out: whatever you want, Duana.  You said we are 
friends and there is no reason for that to change unless you want it 
to.  As I said, you know my secrets, but you have also known me 
since I was a teenager.  I am not going to force you into something 
you do not want."

"That is a very generous offer, but…"

"Do not say 'no' yet.  Just think about it; you have some time.  As 
long as we marry before your baby comes, it is legitimate.  I will 
post the banns so William can object if he wants.  Perhaps then he 
will realize what he is losing.  Please at least consider it."

"I will think about it," she conceded, looking around the dead end 
alley in her cluttered mind and trying to find a way out.  She could 
refuse to marry again, go to a convent, and have her child be a 
bastard, or marry a stranger, or marry Fitz and have her child 
inherit half of Britain.

He stood, starting to reach for her hand and deciding against it. 
"One last thing.  Eimile's father: it cannot be William and I would 
say it is not Llewelyn, either.  I would say someone forced you 
after my father was executed, and if it was one of my knights or 
guards, I want to know it.  If you are going to be my wife, it is my 
right to know." 

Isabelle's game of letting him watch and wonder which of his men 
had been with his wife had its desired effect, and Fitz did not want 
to play it ever again.

"He is dead.  You hanged Edward and William hanged Alex and 
killed Eimile's father.  Your father and William – I have been with 
no one else.  William has always acknowledged Eimile, although 
he must have changed his mind if he is letting her leave Wales.  
Please go, Fitz."

"I am sorry, Duana," he replied, pulling the bed curtains closed and 
walking away.

*~*~*~*

"Are you all right, my lady?" Richard fitzMatthew asked, seeing 
Duana sitting alone in the manicured courtyard, staring at the 
castle walls.  

"I am fine," she replied politely, not looking like that was really 
the case. "And you?"

"My shin and pride have healed well," he answered, smiling and 
referring to a good kick she had given him when he had tried to 
persuade her to leave London. "It is good to see you are feeling 
better.  May I sit down?"

She nodded, and was surprised when he sat, not on the bench 
across from her, but close beside her. "I am an old man now, I do 
not keep up on the world outside of London.  When fitzWalter said 
you wanted safe passage, I did not realize it was from William of 
Aber," he said smoothly.  "I had thought Will died years ago.  We 
were friends in our youth – as close to friends as any Norman and a 
rash Welshman can be."

"Perhaps you mean my hus-" she faltered, "The Lord of Aber is 
Llwynog ap Gwilym – Fox, son of William.  Are you thinking of 
his father?"

"I must be.  The boy lived, then?  I did not know; I thought he died 
with the others.  I suppose he would be a man by now."

"A good man," Duana said, staring at her lap.  

"And you asked for sanctuary from a good man? You did not seem 
very willing to leave."  She did not respond, so Richard offered, 
"My eyes are old: perhaps they deceive me.  I think I see things I 
do not, sometimes.  In the treetops, for example: I could have 
sworn I saw a ghost yesterday, but now I think it must only be an 
animal."

"It must be," she answered, wondering that in the world they were 
talking about.  The silver-haired old man must be feeble.  

"I was fortunate: I grew up knowing the cousin who would become 
my wife," Richard rambled. "But love was not so easy for some of 
my friends.  A Jewish woman, for example, would be a very poor 
choice, even as a mistress.  A nobleman would have to keep such a 
thing very secret.  You are too young to remember, but King 
Richard took a special pleasure in tormenting the Jews.  Once, 
when a Christian baby was found dead, he said they were 
responsible and ordered his knights to kill every Jew in the London 
ghettos and then to burn the remains.  There was no warning for 
them and nowhere to run.  I did not think a child could possibly 
have survived."

"William's mother was a Jew, then?"

"He told me a man cannot choose who he loves."   

Duana finally looked at Richard's dignified face.  William had 
once said almost those same words to her.

"I suppose the son is much like the father," he continued, as though 
she were not scrutinizing him. "Will always followed his heart 
over his head, even when his friends warned him not to.  If I may 
say, you are very beautiful.  Many men must covet you, especially 
powerful men, but you have other admirers as well.  Even the 
treetops seem to watch you as you walk in the courtyard."

"I do not understand."

Except for a few maids out of earshot, there was no one to 
overhear, but Richard lowered his voice anyway. "There seems to 
be a wild Welsh fox in the treetops.  Slowly, look past me and 
above the tower.  He has been watching you since yesterday."

"Oh my God!" she whispered, scanning the trees outside the castle 
walls.  A branch moved, and she saw William's face among the 
leaves.

"I am guarding the gates tonight, but sometimes I doze off and it is 
easy to slip past me, especially at midnight when everyone else is 
asleep."

"Why are you doing this for me?" 

"I told you: your William's father was my friend.  This is his son 
fitzWalter has taken you from, and I do not believe you wanted to 
be taken."

She shook her head slightly 'no,' not believing that was the whole 
story.

"FitzWalter wanted to ensure you would be safe, so he assigned 
me to lead the men, but I do not usually ride anymore.  Forty years 
ago, though, I was captain of the guards for King Richard." 

"You were one of the knights he ordered to burn the ghetto. And 
William's mother – your friend's mistress - was inside."

It was Richard's turn to look away.  "I am old; my memory fails," 
he lied. 

*~*~*~*   
           
"Come," Fitz called, looking over the stacks of ledgers and 
parchments on his desk to see who it was at this hour. "Duana?  
Should you not be abed?"

"I could not sleep," she answered. "What is all this?" 

Duana found a fairly flat surface on his desk and set down a goblet 
she had brought, sipping from her own cup.

"Records, taxes, charters – just the business of Britain."  

"It cannot wait until morning?" she asked, then watched him over 
the rim of her wineglass.

Fitz looked at her, then laid down his quill, picking up the cup.  "I 
suppose.  I never seem to make a dent, anyway.  Duana, you brought 
me brandy?"

"I knew you liked it.  Come: talk with me for a little bit." 

No one was going to let her out to the forest to look for herbs, so 
Duana had to work with what she could find in the castle.  She was 
not sure how quickly the sedative in his wine would take effect.  
Without Fitz to give orders for a few hours, the castle guards 
would be unsure of what to do when they found she was missing: 
Duana bought herself a little more time to try to convince William. 

Unfortunately, Fitz took one sip, then set his goblet on the table, 
sitting down and stretching his legs out to the fire.

"You do not want your drink?"

"It makes me sleepy," he answered, rolling his tired shoulders.

"It helps me calm my nerves," she replied, thinking quickly, and 
sitting beside him.

He turned his head to look at her, and realized that she was 
blushing. "Why are you nervous?"  She glanced up, dropped her 
eyes, and Fitz, no stranger to women, picked up his wine glass. 
"You come to my apartments alone, late at night; if I were not the 
Earl of Pembroke and said to be fearless, I should be the one who 
was nervous.  Are you trying to steal my virtue, woman?"

Duana chuckled.  She had never loved Fitz, but she had always 
liked him, and often thought Walter had once been similar – 
young, idealistic, ready to right the world – before Walter had 
discovered the world was not the chivalrous place he wanted to 
believe it was.  Unlike his father, Fitz had yet to have life laugh at 
him: it did change a man.

"Of course," she said lightly. "My plan is to get you drunk and 
seduce you."

He swallowed a mouthful of brandy, then purposely reached past 
her to set the glass on the opposite table, brushing against her.  
"That is about twelve different sins all at once: we cannot be 
married for another two weeks, you are with child…  Do you know 
how much absolution I would have to pay for?"

"Would it be worth it?" she asked, trying to sound bolder than she 
felt.  By her calculations, he needed more wine then that – at least 
half the cup.

"Every penny, every second." He stayed close to her, watching 
her face in the firelight.  "You have changed your mind then: 
about the marriage?"

She nodded 'yes,' hating to lie to him while he was looking at her 
with those soft brown eyes.  

"And about me?" he asked, deciding he could use a little more 
wine after all.

Duana heard his voice hesitate – that was the key: he was anxious 
about her, of all the silly things.

"I am just nervous."

"So wait, Duana." He moved away, leaning back against the sofa. 
"We are not even married yet. There is no hurry."

"No, the longer I wait, the more nervous I will get."    

He took a longer drink, then set the goblet down. "Tonight, then? 
You are certain?"

"I am not certain of anything right now, Fitz," she said honestly. 
"Except that I am going to have a child in barely four months and 
that I want my child to have a father."

He hesitated, not sure how to make contact.  Finally, he rested his 
hand carefully on her abdomen, rubbing lightly. "I thought I 
noticed it the other day: you are beginning to show.  I guess if I am 
going to be your husband, I get to make observations like that."

Duana watched his hand move, finding it tolerable.  William 
seemed to spend most of her pregnancies with one hand on her 
belly, so this was not a new sensation.

"Can you tell yet if it is a boy or a girl?" he asked, trying to get 
her to relax.  He was nervous, but the poor woman was about to jump 
out of her skin.

"Honestly, I have never been able to tell."

"It does not matter." He slipped his hand further around her waist, 
pulling her to him. "A son would be wonderful, but as long as 
you and the child are healthy, I am content."

He brushed his lips against her forehead, and Duana swallowed, 
trying to stall.  He should have had enough of the sedative now to 
start getting sleepy, but she was not positive.  These were not her 
herbs that she could know exactly how potent they were.

"Fitz, I – I am not one of those women that bears children easily, 
and you know I have been ill.  It is not good that there are already 
so many problems.  It is very possible that you will end up with an 
heir, but no wife.  Are you sure that is what you want?  If William 
does not want this child, I can think of no better father than you, 
but do you want to claim a child that is not yours if I die?"

Fitz pulled away a few inches, eyes frightened. "Do not even say 
that! You will be fine."  

She blinked, again wondering how she always managed to say 
things to Fitz that she could not tell William.  

"You will be fine," he insisted again, then put his arms around her 
carefully.  "God would not do that," he whispered into her ear, 
then lightly kissed her neck. "Duana – stay with me tonight. Just 
sleep, nothing more. Will you do that?"

She nodded, and he led her through the passageway to the 
bedchamber, stumbling slightly.  

"That wine did make you sleepy," she commented, guiding him 
back to the bed and pulling off his boots. "Raise your arms so 
I can get your shirt off."

"Later," Fitz mumbled, laying down on the pillows and reaching 
his hand up for her. "Too sleepy.  Stay with me, Duana."

"I am right here," she said, sitting beside him, stroking his dark 
beard and thinking how very much he looked like his father as he 
dozed.  

It was only a few moments before his breathing slowed to the calm 
rhythm of deep sleep.  Duana folded the blankets over him and 
closed the bed curtains, whispering that she was sorry as she 
slipped out.

*~*~*~* 

She had seen him – Gwilym was certain of it, but there was no way 
past that castle gate.  Even if he could get in, he could not get her 
out safely.

Of course, being Gwilym, that still meant he was going to try.  

"Do not do it, Welshman," the old man on guard duty growled, and 
Gwilym froze, knife in hand, certain he was still in the shadows 
and had not made a sound as he approached.  "Be patient.  Your 
father must have told you never to underestimate a woman. And 
that they are always late."

He debated what the knight could mean, but did not respond, not 
willing to give himself away.  As he watched, the gate opened just 
enough for a small form to slip through, then quietly closed again. 
Someone had greased the chains and hinges so it would not squeal.

The knight said something to the woman, and she turned toward 
Gwilym, her face still hidden under her dark hood. "Gwilym," she 
whispered in Welsh. "Are you there? It is safe."

Trusting her, Gwilym stepped out, and the old knight's eyes lit up.  
Gwilym felt like he was being appraised, but he did not have time 
for small talk.  Any second, a servant might discover Duana was 
not in her bedchamber and soldiers would swarm like angry ants.

"I saw the banns posted in London: do you want that?" Gwilym 
asked, trying to talk around the huge lump in his throat.

She shook her head vigorously 'no,' not able to get her tongue to 
cooperate.

"I have horses waiting in the forest.  I will take you wherever you 
want to go."

"Home," she managed. "This is your child; I want to come home."

"There is no home," Gwilym replied, stepping closer. "There is no 
more Lord and Lady of Aber or castles or courts.  I am a traitor 
against the Crown."

Duana hesitated, wondering if he meant the Welsh or English 
Crown.  Had Gwilym and Llewelyn had a falling out?  Or was it 
Fitz?  How deep did the lies go?  

"Go back, cariad; go back to what you know while you still can."

"There are lights in Lady Duana's apartments," the old knight 
warned from behind the metal bars of the gate. "And now in 
fitzWalter's.  Either run now or get back inside."

"Cariad?" Gwilym said urgently, surprised at how easily the word 
rolled off his tongue. "Get back inside. Get back before someone 
sees you."

"Go," she said, grabbing his hand and heading for the trees. 
"Now!" Duana ordered a stunned Gwilym. "Hurry - run!"

"Go!" the guard ordered, and Gwilym turned, following Duana 
into the dark forest as a servant sounded the alarm.

*~*~*~*
End: Amau